


First Batch of the Season

by MDJensen



Series: Honest Songs/Distillery 'verse [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos is a little sad, Gen, Plum Jam, lots of hugs, then he's not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 12:32:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5829127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's harvest at the distillery, and the plums are ready for jamming. </p><p>Oneshot set a few months after <i>Honest Songs</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Batch of the Season

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same universe as my story _Honest Songs_. It won't make much sense if you haven't read it, but basically, Athos was poisoned and turned into an infant, but rather than being cured was raised by Porthos and Aramis until his tenth birthday, when he changed back again. This is set a few months after that happened.
> 
> This was a scene I wanted to include in the original story, but didn't because I wanted this just as a moment between Porthos and Athos, and _HS_ was from d'Artagnan's POV.

Porthos reached over and pinched a lock of wavy brown hair between his thumb and forefinger, tugging slightly before letting it go. Athos only tossed his head in response. When he turned a moment later, though, Porthos saw that he was smiling warmly, with the sort of quiet fondness that lit a man’s features until they glowed like a sunset.

Porthos smiled back, feeling oddly relieved. It was tricky, at times, negotiating how to act around Athos-- Athos who had spent the last ten years as an affectionate child but the thirty-odd years before that as somewhat untouchable _comte_. True, he’d made exceptions. But the Athos of old had not been one for fingers in his hair, constant proximity, hugs for no reason. Athos now, though, did not seem to mind, for which Porthos was grateful.

“Season’s goin’ so _fast_ this year,” Porthos noted, as Athos set to chopping the first batch of plums. “We’ll be deliverin’ before October, at this rate.” Mindful of the blade in Athos’ hands, he reached over and snagged a small piece of fruit, popping it into his mouth. The flesh of it was a pale but persistent red now. It was the perfect time for jam making.

“Eat one I haven’t chopped,” Athos scolded, not missing a beat.

“But then I’d be eatin’ a whole one. This way I’m only eatin’ a bit.”

Athos tried-- and failed-- so spectacularly to be stern that Porthos couldn’t help brushing gently through his hair again, though he wiped the plum juice from his fingers first. “Be useful,” Athos admonished.

“Water’s boilin’. Everythin’s in there already-- we’re just waitin’ on the plums.”

“They’re ready.” Athos set the knife down and scooped the chopped fruit into a waiting bowl, coating his fingers in juice as he did so. He handed the bowl to Porthos, who tipped it into the pot. Then, neither of them thinking much through it, Athos held his hands out to Porthos, who was ready with a damp kitchen cloth to wipe them clean.

“You wanna stir?”

“Mm-hm,” Athos replied, and went to fetch the stool he always stood on.

Having set the stool down, though, he straightened with a look of absolute dismay on his face.

“Ath?” Porthos prompted, frowning at the man’s sudden pallor.

Athos let out a single huff of air.

“Hey.” Porthos stepped closer. “You all right, _cheri_?”

Athos nodded, then shook his head-- then bolted.

Porthos’ whole body gave a jerk as he physically held himself back from following; sucking in a slow, even breath, he gave the soon-to-be jam a few good stirs, until it was simmering nicely. Then, feeling a bit calmer, he ventured into the sitting room.

The fear that he would have to go searching for Athos was wholly unfounded, as he had gone no further than to lean against the wall just beside the doorframe. Still Porthos’ stomach sank as he took in the sight. Athos had one arm around his waist and the mound of the opposite palm pressed to his forehead, and he was shaking lightly.

“Hey,” Porthos murmured, cupping his hands around the points of Athos’ elbows.

“Hey.” Athos’ voice was a little stuffy.

“I, eh-- didn’t see that one comin’.”

“Neither did I.” Athos lowered his hand, only to his mouth, but this was far enough for Porthos to see the drying trails of a few stubborn tears. His stomach swooped a little further.

“Can you tell me?”

Athos opened his mouth, made a little noise, and then shut it again.

“All right,” Porthos soothed, “’sall right, Athos. Don’t needa if you ain’t ready. C’mere.”

For one horrible moment Porthos was sure that he’d gone too far-- that as Athos, as Olivier no longer, the man needed his space, and that Porthos hadn’t given him enough--

But then, before he could agonize any further, Athos fell wordlessly into his arms.

Porthos felt a little sigh of relief escape his lips as Athos grabbed a hold of his waist and sniffled wetly into his chest. He laid one hand at the small of Athos’ back, wove the other into his hair. “I’m here,” he murmured, thumbing softly against Athos’ scalp. “You have a cry if you need one. ‘m not goin’ nowhere.”

Athos let out a few muffled sobs and clung tighter, fitting his body flush against Porthos’ as though it were the middle of winter when it was, in fact, early August. Porthos rocked him gently. After a minute or two he calmed himself down, and after he’d been silent a moment he huffed out something that might have been words.

“Was that French, Ath?” Porthos teased, nuzzling his hair. There was a movement at his chest, then Athos’ head was turned to the side.

“The jam,” he mewled, and Porthos couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I’m thinkin’ about you, _cheri_. Not the jam.”

“’sa waste.”

“It’s a batch. There’s what, two pounds in it? D’Artagnan eats more’n that for breakfast.”

But Athos shook his head, wiped his eyes, and quite abruptly pushed away, leaving Porthos to trail him through the door.

In the kitchen, the air smelled of plum and allspice. Athos was carefully stirring the pot with one hand, wiping his nose on the back of the other; he looked so entirely pathetic that Porthos wasted no time in going to him and tucking him under one arm. Athos melted against him. They stood that way a few minutes, until at last Athos drew up the spoon, sniffed the jam, then used his little finger to taste the smallest dab of it.

He sniffled. “It needs sugar.”

Porthos tasted a little as well-- remembering instantly why he and Athos always spent two or three weeks a year with burnt tongues-- and chuckled. “It does not need sugar.”

“It does. At least a little.”

“It does not need sugar. If we added sugar every time you said it needed sugar we might as well just sell jars of sugar.”

Athos’ face twitched a little, and relief washed over Porthos as it seemed the man was going to smile. Then Athos began to cry once more.

He hung his head, looking a little embarrassed, though not enough to flee again. Porthos cupped Athos’ face in his hands. “We can add more sugar if it means that much to you,” he promised, and Athos huffed out a laugh and closed his eyes.

“I’m not crying for that.”

“I know. I know. I only wonder if you know what you _are_ cryin’ for, ‘cause I don’t think I do.”

Athos pressed his lips together, fighting for composure even while fresh tears streamed down his cheeks. “It’s silly.”

“If it’s makin’ you sad then it ain’t silly.”

“No, but, Porthos-- it really is.”

“Tell me.”

Athos opened his eyes, their muted blue made brighter by the tears still wavering there. “I-- miss.” He sighed. “I miss standing on that stool.”

“What?”

“I used to stand on that stool to stir the jam. And now I don’t need to. And I miss it.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Porthos breathed, finding nothing else to say-- and then he was grabbing Athos to him again, squeezing him until his own arms were shaking, feeling all at once like weeping himself. Athos nuzzled against him with a soft, blustery sound.

“I’m all right,” he breathed. “Everything’s all right. And I know that we’re all still together. But I miss-- b-being Olivier, sometimes.”

Porthos had not a single thing to say to that, and was a little afraid that he really would cry if he tried to speak anyway. Instead he merely held Athos close. They stood this way a while, Porthos brushing kisses over Athos’ hair and brow, until at last Athos sniffled hugely and wriggled his way out. He stirred the jam, tasted it, and removed the pot from the flame. Then he flopped heavily into a chair and slumped in a heap over the table.

“This’s gotta be the most emotional batch of jam ever made,” Porthos sighed, falling into the chair besides him.

Athos took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded weakly. He and Porthos sat in quiet a little while, calming themselves, while the sweet, spicy scent of jam drifted around their noses.

At last Porthos cleared his throat. “You could-- use the stool-- if you wanted?”

“Porthos.” Athos’ voice was steadier than it had been. “I’m forty-six.”

“Still pretty short, though, ‘f we’re bein’ honest.”

This earned him a tired smile, as Athos sat back and pushed the hair away from his eyes. Porthos regarded him thoughtfully. It had been Aramis who’d had-- still was having, really-- the hardest time with Olivier becoming Athos yet again. Athos himself had had moments of doubt, yes. But generally he seemed cheerful, especially in comparison with his original disposition, and Porthos had not spent overmuch time worrying on this particular subject.

In fact, to be honest, this had caught him sort of off guard.

As though sensing his thoughts, Athos blinking up at him. “Stop fussing. I see you starting to.”

Porthos did not stop fussing. “Why--” he began, then paused. “Why didn’t you say anythin’?”

“There isn’t much to say,” Athos replied. “I’m not unhappy, Porthos. Truly. Moments like this-- they just catch me by surprise sometimes.”

“How many _moments_?”

“Not many.” Athos reached over and touched a hand to Porthos’ arm. “Porthos, not many. In the end I think it’s an honor. Having a childhood you can miss. I’m not unhappy now. And I don’t feel unsafe. But I miss-- being small. Miss you and Pa-- Aramis. Miss you two picking me up. A grown man-- just can’t be held like a child can--”

Porthos plucked Athos’ hand from where it rested on his arm, and twined their fingers together. “You just made yourself sad again, dincha?”

“A little.”

“Listen,” Porthos murmured. “It’s been almost forty years since the last time my mother held me. An’ I-- I could still cry from missin’ it, any given moment, if I really wanted to.”

Athos smiled, squeezing his fingers in wordless support.

“What happened, happened. It was real an’ it was only a few months ago. All other things aside it’s gotta hurt makin’ such a big change so quick. Nobody blames you missin’ it a little. Nobody blames you missin’ it a lot. But you gotta _tell_ us-- you gotta let us help you.”

“I’m not trying to keep it to myself. Only I suppose I am trying not to-- show Aramis.”

And there it was. What was there to say to that?

Porthos sighed and rubbed his thumb across the back of Athos’ hand. “All right,” he murmured. “I know. But-- tell me, yeah? Please, Ath.”

Athos smiled. “Are you not going to congratulate me on telling you now?”

Porthos tried to picture Athos as he was before, weeping over a pot of jam and then, by all accounts, not dying of embarrassment. He smiled back.

Athos took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then pulled his hand away. “We ought to jar it before it cools any more.” He pushed to his feet.

Porthos got up as well, and went over to the pantry. “Hang on a tick. You ain’t forgotten, have you?”

“Mm?”

“First batch of the season. Gotta have a bit of it while it’s still warm.” He drew out a parcel of cookies he’d purchased just for this occasion and held it out to Athos, who was no longer smiling but fully grinning like a fool. “It’s tradition.”

Athos accepted a cookie and ladled a massive spoonful of plum jam on top of it. “Tradition,” he echoed, raising the mess to his lips. “A good tradition, I’d say.”

“An’ I,” Porthos replied, spooning some jam onto his own cookie, “would have to agree.”

**Author's Note:**

> I do have some other plans within this universe, including a oneshot between Aramis and Porthos and possibly a few chapters of prequel, but I wanted to post this before too long. This may eventually be the place where I post all my _HS_ 'verse oneshots, or maybe I'll post them separately-- haven't gotten that far yet! In any case, I hope you enjoyed! If anyone has any specific prompts about oneshots they'd like to see, feel free to suggest and I will try to fill them :)


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